


Der Musiker

by twosockles



Category: Futur Radio, Original Work
Genre: Bec is Metis!, Flashback to when (Bec) was young, Gen, Magical Realism, Our anxious detective once was a musician, Warning for death and struggling to cope with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twosockles/pseuds/twosockles
Summary: Basil remembers his grandfather’s hands showing him how to hold the violin (Slight AU) (Original post date: Nov 11 2019)





	Der Musiker

He remembers the first time his grandfather tucked the base of a violin under his chin. It was a German manufactured antique with the words der Musiker engraved into the side of the neck, and it was like family. Before that day, he had only ever been allowed to watch as his grandfather would scoop up the violin and carve out a song from thin air. Within a minute, the sound would make idle feet tap out a dance. His grandmother, already becoming stiff and swollen, danced softer than her excitable grandson, would do her share to fill their tiny house with enthusiasm. So, on his 5th birthday, when his grandfather took out the violin to show him how to hold it, his small hands lay on the old dark walnut wood with a delicate excitement. Large and worn hands pressed hard against his to show him how to hold the bow right. Once he had gotten his grip correct, Grandfather stepped back and spoke:

“Play us something Basil.”

So he did.

It was a scratchy, unrefined mess, yet it was an unforgettable first song. A high-pitched cry rang across the room. The wood fluttered awake, humming a humble hello from the curls of its head to the bottom of its base. Then, with a twist of Basil’s hand, the pitch suddenly fell, fading gently as his bow ran out of room to speak. The room was quiet afterwards, as if it was holding its breath like he was.

Basil turned to his grandfather and asked him to teach him everything.

Basil loved every lesson; every bit of knowledge his grandfather knew he wanted. It’s as if he’s drowning and the music is in the air he longs for. He loves the dance of plucking his fingers across the strings, pizzicato. The bow is like a grand hero’s arrow, held at the ready against resonate strings. When he releases, Arco. Basil learns theory, from scales, to notes, to all the modes. (He’s forbidden to play the 6th, Locrian mode. The devil’s mode. His grandfather teaches him anyways, with a wink, because ‘there’s a little devil in all of us’).

Basil plays so much, he has to go outside. He plays outside so much he has to walk as far down the dirt road as he can until no one yells at him to stop anymore. Basil cries for two days straight the first time he breaks a string. His grandfather makes him collect pledges from the neighbours to raise money for a new one.

Meanwhile, his grandmother does her best to teach him everything else that goes on in the world, like math, science and Jesus. He isn’t sure who Jesus is, but supposedly Jesus is always watching over him. Basil assumes Jesus is a shapeshifter, like in the stories grandmother tells of Coyote. Jesus is the cop who gives Basil a ride to lessons when his grandfather can’t teach him anymore. Jesus is the lone rosary on the bathroom wall with unknown origins. Jesus is good soup, specifically the corn and squash soup their next-door neighbour makes.

When he’s older he learns of terms like Sixties Scoop, and Residential School that piece together the previously ambiguous parts of life. His mother has long disappeared, lost in a cruel system that could decide if it wanted to help or harm. His grandfather drills him with a military rigor that has been pressed into him like the hot iron that made the scars on his back.

A few days after Basil turns sixteen, grandfather gets sick and never recovers.

By then, between high school, lessons, and gigging, Basil has been in and out of the reserve too many times to count. An overnight stay in the city becomes a week, then a month. He came home every now and then, to a house that felt too still to be welcoming. Grandfather liked his new, city style. Basil played to the voice of his grandfather, rich and bright, a contrast to the airy voices he heard in the city. A contrast to the greying, shrinking form of his grandfather.

It was late summer when grandfather slips away. The air was heavy with the scent of a far-off fire, and dry pine needles, even inside the community building where they hosted the funeral. A lot of people Basil has never seen before showed up to tell stories to honour the life of his grandfather. They are old classmates, friends’ former bandmates who peel back the paint of the portrait Basil drew in his mind of his grandfather. They began as distinct voices, but by the third speaker, Basil tuned in to the rise and fall of pitch in their voices, the rest of the talkers blurring together in an arrhythmic song.

There’s a break and people begin to lay out the food, while musicians’ warmed up to perform. The people around him were like the rocks where the water meets the shore. They varied from small to large, from dark to light, from scrunchy faced babies to wrinkled old men. Basil heared a stray note from an alto saxophone and decided to add the instruments to his list of guests. It’s was not the first time the community had got together to perform, nor the first time it had been done for a funeral. Near the end, Basil would play a song for his grandfather, but he didn’t think of it as the last time.

It felt like any other performance, until a neighbour lets him know that his Grandmother left early, and Basil felt a numbing weight in his chest he lacked the words to describe. The strings in his heart fell loose in the moment, an accidental slip off the baseboard that left him floundering. Not snapped, just loose. Basil failed to make a verbal excuse, only nodding in acknowledgement and silently turning away. His waistcoat, which seemed to fit so well a few hours ago felt too tight. He dug his fingers, frustrated and fierce into the small gaps between the small brown buttons.

When Basil was fourteen and so anxious over a big performance, he bit two of his fingernails off; Grandfather gave him an aspirin and two bandages and told him not to show any signs of weakness. Years of grandfather’s critiques echo in his mind, pound on his eardrum as if any minute he would feel Grandfather's hands fixing his posture or finer positions. Years of Grandfathers mantras ring in his head. Number 16: Always tune before a performance.

Basil tuned himself. Adjusted the pins in his head until all he could feel the comfortable tension of an upcoming performance.

To Basil music was gravity, pulling him towards a place he understood. ‘Focus’ is the feeling of grandfather’s stern hands pressing down on his. The only judgement that mattered to him in the end, despite it all, was his grandfather's. He doesn’t remember the audience’s reaction, nor walking off the stage. He remembers sitting down outside, filling his lungs with pine scented dusk and running his fingers across the engraving on the side of his violin.

Der musiker. The Musician. It’s a fitting name, for every song is not manufactured by the player, but is instead a duet of two musicians. Every pore of der Musiker is filled with the skin and blood of his family.

He wants to cry, like he can leach out the poisonous feelings inside of him through his tears. He’s always quick to tears when he’s alone, but nothing comes to him.

Grandfather, tucked into the small stain where a small drop of his blood melded into the wood years ago, closes his eyes.

And he cries.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for class and its something I'm still proud of. HOWEVER! There's a lot more of OC work on my page! See you there!


End file.
